Return of the Native

Man, I hated that book. I still do, in fact. I read it in high school, absolutely loathed it, could barely get past the endless descriptions of that godforsaken heath, and then the characters' utter ineptitude and insouciance drove me batty. Years later, I re-read it, during a spell of dipping into the Classics, because I figured it couldn't have been that bad. Yick. Goddamn Thomas Hardy.

Anyway, the reason for that title to today's little entry has nothing whatsoever to do with Hardy and everything to do with the apparent re-emergence of my long-lost pal Doug. Doug was my college roommate and partner-in-crime. We spent a great deal of time together violating social norms in a fashion that can be described as "inimitable," but which most of the people around us would have described as "obnoxious." But that's okay.

I haven't heard from Doug since I sent him, as a Christmas gift, a clay bottle labelled "Butt Raisins," filled with Raisinettes. That was, I think, just over 5 years ago. (And no, I don't think it was the gift that led to our not being in contact. In the context of our friendship, that was quite the tasteful memento.) Much has changed.

Apparently, he's married and has a kid. Now, I was married, but no longer am, but never had a kid, and now won't. This is one way to detect the difference between us.

But now, soft, the béchamel and gorgonzola sauce awaits the roasted chicken and linguine, to be made into tonight's gastronomic adventure.